


Revenants and Remedies

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [29]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-17 20:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5884888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos meets an Ex. It doesn't precisely go well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



Alice’s cafe is right next to a lake. Half _on_ a lake to be precise. It used to be a small summer residence, a remainder of the time when the Clerbeaux Clan owned the better part of the county. She had it restored from top to bottom five years ago, and turned the room overlooking the lake into a sitting area for the customers.

The southern wall of the old ball room opens up into a massive winter garden, held above the water on stilts, surrounded by a wooden pier. On nice days she has the terrace doors going out to the pier opened and serves coffee and cake to people in boats.

It’s a huge success.

Alice has spared no expense to restore the room to how it looked when it was built - with the addition of a vast number of plants to figure as dividers to give the customers a sense of privacy and bring some structure into the wide, open space.

Aramis is clearly in favour. He hadn’t seen the inside of the building on his first date with Porthos because it had been such a beautiful spring day, but now that he has seen it, Athos doesn’t think he’ll ever want to eat outside again, spring day or no spring day.

The room is beautiful.

They are sitting at one of the best tables, right next to a window, and Aramis is basically melting into his spindly-legged armchair, while he tries to contain his moans about Alice’s chocolate cake.

Athos grins at him. “Good, yes?”

Aramis moans again and rolls his eyes, apparently suffering a religious revelation.

“I think she changed the recipe,” Porthos says, audibly amused. “It’s even better than usual.”

Athos, who has a piece of blueberry cheesecake in front of him, takes him at his word.

So far Alice hasn’t come over to torture Aramis with Porthos’ behavior in her presence, and if he is quite honest with himself, Athos is no longer sure that he wants that to happen after all.

It is just such a very comfortable day. For while it is grey and stormy outside, and the rain is meeting the lake with such force that each impact results in a little splash of its own, inside the cafe it is wonderfully cosy, with candles on the table between them and the smell of coffee and cinnamon in the air.

The appearance of Alice on the scene wouldn’t necessarily change that, but Aramis’ little bubble of chocolate cake induced happiness looks so precious that Athos doesn’t want anything to disturb it.

So he reaches out, not quite thinking, but driven by instinct and care, and puts his hand on Aramis’ knee underneath the table, not paying even the slightest attention to the people passing them by on their way to the cloak room.

Porthos sees it and smirks at Athos, not saying a single word.

It’s quite a different voice that suddenly rings out over the low-level din of the room.

“Well, I'll be fucked. Athos, is that you?”

Athos blinks upon being addressed in this manner, and turns around in his chair to look up into a face he hasn't laid eyes upon in more than ten years. It is not precisely a face of fond recollection, and it doesn't look exactly happy to see him either.

“Beatrix," he says, his voice carefully polite. "I did not know you were in town.”

She snorts, eyeing his hand on Aramis’ knee. “Banging guys now, are you? No wonder you never properly managed to get it up for me.”

The other patrons of Alice's café are wide-eyed recipients of her unfiltered thought processes, and Athos feels himself go rigid, and pulls his hand back into his own lap.

Upon seeing his reaction Beatrix snorts once more, mocking disdain marring her otherwise so pleasant features. She was a pretty girl when Athos knew her, and has turned into a remarkably beautiful woman, but time certainly did not improve her manners.

Athos lifts his chin and meets the scorn in her eyes without flinching. “I do not think this is the time or place to discuss such matters.”

She cackles. “Oh my god, you haven’t changed at all - and no wonder, if you’re still hanging all over Porthos.”

The way she says his name makes Athos’ bristle, and when she eventually turns her toxic gaze on Aramis he feels himself go cold with protective fury.

“Found yourself a pretty toy to share, did you?” she sneers - and that is when Porthos growls and leans forward in his chair, the storm in his eyes matching the one outside the window.

“Will you learn to keep your trap shut, you -”

Aramis clears his throat. “Don’t.”

The softly spoken request works like a needle inserted into a hot-air balloon.

Porthos falls back in his chair and stares at him, deflated. He sounds oddly apologetic when he speaks next. “What? Didn’t you hear what she called you?”

“I heard,” Aramis says, his voice without inflection. He looks pale, and sad, and Athos thinks he might actually boil out of his skin with rage.

“Thank you, Beatrix,” he hears himself say. “It is not like I needed the reminder as to why I had quite given up on anything even resembling a romantic relationship after a few encounters with you and your kin, but I think I need to make something very clear.”

He gets up from his chair, and faces her - for the first time noticing the vapid fop beside her and dismissing the man as both irrelevant and inappropriately tan.

“Aramis is a _person_ ,” he informs the room at large, a sharp edge to his voice, “not a toy. He has character, and heart, and quite a number of amiable qualities that you, I must say, appear to lack. Despite all that, I am not, as you so colourfully put it, banging him. I am, in fact, not banging anyone.” 

Here a little grin escapes the hitherto disdainful curl of Athos’ lips. “Not even Porthos, although I can assure you that it is not from physical inability on either our parts.”

Beatrix opens her mouth then, quite probably for a counter-attack, and Athos lifts his hand, effectively stopping her. “No thank you. I do not need your opinion on this matter, nor on any other - despite the fact that I repeatedly failed to properly get it up for you, once upon a time. I realize now that my perceived failure must have been the happy result of my body trying to protect itself from being intimate with someone so very lacking in tenderness - not to speak of basic human decency.”

Beatrix mouth is still open, but it doesn’t appear that she has any intention to speak, at this point.

Athos is rather glad about that. He’s feeling a bit faint.

Still he manages to stare her down until she retreats right back out the door, dragging her companion behind her like an oversized carrot in a designer suit.

Only then does he collapse back into his chair. “I think I might be sick.”

“I think I might applaud,” Porthos counters, sliding off his chair to kneel beside Athos’ and give him a hug right in front of their appreciative audience. “You were _magnificent_.”

Athos can’t help but relax into his arms - looking over his shoulder at Aramis, who is gazing at him in wide-eyed wonderment. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Aramis says then, his voice wobbly and the threat of tears in his eyes, “yes, I’m alright.”


	2. Chapter 2

Athos feels drained.

Outside the apartment the storm has picked up, is beating the rain in torrents against the bathroom window. Its steady prattling replaces the sound of the shower when he turns it off, and he thinks that he can actually feel the wind pull at the massive structure of the house, that he can feel it shift ever so slightly.

It’s probably nothing but his imagination acting up.

Athos closes his eyes, leans his forehead against the cool tiles. It has been quite a while since he last felt this exhausted.

He remains motionless for a long moment; then he steps out of the shower and grabs his towel from the heater, dries off and puts on a pair of pyjamas.

His hair is still dripping when he steps out of the bathroom, and he walks into the kitchen, gets a bottle of wine out of the cabinet, fills a glass. Stares at it.

“You wanna drink that, or come to bed?” Porthos asks from behind him, voice tentative.

Athos shrugs. “I am still thinking.” He breathes in, breathes out. “Both, possibly.”

Porthos steps up to stand beside him, shirtless in pyjama pants, reaches out to take the glass and lift it to his lips.

Athos watches him drink, one mouthful and then another, and then Porthos hands the glass back to him. “This is a good one. A bit sweet for you, maybe.”

“I bought it for Aramis,” Athos replies softly.

Porthos smiles at him. “You wanna sleep with us tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Athos murmurs.

He feels fragile, fraying at the edges.

It is not just that he was part of a scene today. That he stood up and raised his voice and stood by his lovers - his convictions.

It’s Beatrix. The memories she stirred up. The frustration and shame and helpless anger he’d thought were behind him.

Once upon a time, before she turned into the nasty beauty he encountered today, she was a very sweet, if somewhat unrefined and rather too outspoken girl; and Athos loved her. Or at least he believed he did. He cannot be sure anymore. She was a fresh breath of air in his life, and one he allowed to sweep him up rather too readily.

Trying to sleep with her was … unpleasant. Each and every time.

Their relationship did not survive that. It didn’t even survive the first attempt. Even when they pretended it did.

“Come on,” Porthos says next to Athos. “Drink up, and go to bed. I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

He leans in to brush a kiss to Athos’ temple, and then he leaves him alone - gives him the space to make his decision in peace.

Athos closes his eyes. Whatever else happens, Porthos will never abandon him, and neither will Aramis. He really does believe that.

His sexual prowess is of no consequence to them. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have to sleep with them, but if he wants to, they will welcome him. They’ll stand by him even if it turns out the same way it did all the other times. If it doesn’t feel good.

If he doesn’t want to do it again.

So Athos drinks his wine, and goes to bed. In Porthos’ room.

They are still up when he comes in, Aramis looking pale and worried and beautiful, naked but for a pair of briefs, kneeling above the covers and watching Porthos pace the floor next to the bed.

They both turn their heads to look at him, like two boys caught scheming.

“No need to come and get me,” Athos says, summoning an exhausted smile onto his face. “I’ll come peacefully.”

Porthos rushes towards him then, envelops him in his arms and holds him tight, one hand to the back of Athos’ head, as if he was cradling a child. He doesn’t say anything, just _holds_ him.

It’s Aramis who speaks. “Do you - do you need me to sleep on the floor ton-”

“I will never,” Athos interrupts him fiercely, “need you to sleep on the floor.”

Even raising his voice like this only serves to exhaust him more. Athos clings to Porthos for a moment, and then he lets go, steps over to the bed and puts his knee on the mattress, pulls Aramis up so he can take him into his arms. “I want you close tonight,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with weariness. “Please.”

He can feel the hasty intake of breath rushing into Aramis’ lungs, can feel his chest expand against his own, and closes his eyes. It feels so nice to hold Aramis like this - to feel his skin under his hands, warm and soft.

Athos is too tired to move, suddenly. Wishes he could just stay like this with Aramis indefinitely.

“Come on then,” he hears Porthos voice behind him, feels his hands on his back. “Under the covers with you two.” He gently pulls Athos towards him, waits for Aramis to fold back the covers, and then manoeuvres Athos into the middle of the bed.

“Comfortable?” he asks Athos a few moments later, lying beside him, his head propped up on one hand; instead of answering him Athos turns his gaze to where Aramis is kneeling once more on the bed, eyes wide and insecure.

“What is it?”

“Can I kiss you?” Aramis asks him, sounding torn between insecurity and eagerness, and when Athos nods he leans in right away, presses their mouths together with slightly more verve than usual - with less of his otherwise so careful control.

It sends trickles of warmth down Athos’ spine - the way Aramis stretches out beside him without breaking contact, lost to everything but their kiss, his breath mingling with Athos’ until it is both minty fresh and spiced with wine.

It’s Porthos who pulls the blankets over them all, who turns off the light and moulds himself to Athos’ back, his hand a warm weight on Athos’ stomach, while Athos and Aramis are still kissing.

It’s Porthos who suddenly sends a spike of heat through Athos by pressing impossibly close to him from behind - by brushing his thumb under the fabric of Athos’ pyjama top.

Athos is still tired, still exhausted, and now he feels more vulnerable than ever before.


	3. Chapter 3

Aramis’ lips are warm and soft, and Athos can’t catch his breath.

Aramis keeps kissing him so very ardently, has buried one hand in Athos’ wet hair, is lying so close to him that Athos can feel his heartbeat. His warmth is familiar and comfortable, and it shouldn’t make Athos feel helpless, but it does. 

Because Aramis manages to be both gentle and passionate at the same time, and Athos thinks he might break from it.

He always thought only Porthos could be like this.

He’d seen it so often, over the years, when Porthos was with other people, how he touched them and held them and kissed them.

It never made Athos jealous, but still it hurt, if only a little.

Because he knew, deep down inside, that nobody could ever make him feel the way Porthos made them feel. That he was … not broken. Just different.

And now a low heat is simmering in his gut, stoked by Porthos’ hand on his belly and the way Aramis is kissing him, and Athos is so very afraid to burn himself that he squeezes his eyes shut until he can see stars explode behind his lids.

This can’t be it. This can’t be how you’re supposed to feel. Like an explosive, waiting to go off.

It’s not the first time that Porthos is touching him like this, not the first time he’s being kissed, and Athos vaguely wonders why it is that, instead of him getting used to being with them like this, his reaction to it only grows stronger.

The weight of Porthos’ hand is so very prominent, so very pleasant, almost distracting him from Aramis’ lips against his own. The feeling of Porthos’ thumb brushing back and forth below his navel … it does something to Athos. Just as much as the way Aramis is kissing him does.

It’s stirring something inside him. He didn’t know that he had this many nerve-endings that could be set on fire. He doesn’t think that he’s supposed to feel this hot. Not from this.

Athos makes a desperate noise and goes rigid, has no idea what to do with himself. He feels trapped in his own skin, hindered by his body’s needs and reactions, and he knows that he wants something to happen, he just doesn’t know _what_ , and -

“You two better take a break, eh?” Porthos voice suddenly rises over the tumult in Athos’ mind. It is so calm and comforting that it nearly succeeds in extinguishing the flames licking at Athos from the inside of his head. “Take it easy.”

Athos fights to control his breathing while Aramis pulls away, looking back at him with eyes that are huge and black in the dark … so very worried as he looks at him.

“Porthos, he’s crying,” he whispers, and it’s neither shock nor guilt that imbues his voice, but sad acknowledgement of the fact.

Porthos makes a soothing noise then, turns Athos around in his arms until he faces him and brushes his thumbs over Athos’ face, wiping away his tears - smiling at him. “Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he murmurs, and Athos believes him. “You had an exhaustin’ day. Try to sleep, love.” Another smile, a bit brighter than the first. “You’ll feel better in the mornin’, I promise.”

Athos leans in and kisses him.

He doesn’t know if it was the term of endearment, or the way Porthos touched him, but he _needs_ to kiss him.

For a few seconds Porthos remains absolutely still, his mouth slack under Athos’ lips, too surprised to act. Then he gently but firmly brings some distance between them. “Now, Athos, listen -”

Athos whines, and pushes back in - licks into his mouth. Surprises himself as much as he does Porthos.

He’s never done this before. Neither to Porthos, nor to Aramis. It would have crossed a line - it crosses that line now; but Porthos’ mouth is hot and wet and Athos cannot stop himself.

Porthos doesn’t seem to mind. He growls, pulls Athos on top of him and kisses him back, holding Athos tight enough to make him gasp.

It feels good.

It actually _feels good_.

Tears keep streaming over Athos’ cheeks as he is tasting his best friend for the very first time, and he can’t breathe, can’t think - can only revel in the excruciating amazement that it _actually feels good_.

He never expected that it would, never dared to hope, and now he doesn’t know what to do.

Next to him he can hear Aramis bite down on a moan, and that only makes it worse - makes him feel so lost and helpless that it terrifies him.

Then Porthos pulls back. Stares at Athos for a long time while they both fight to catch their breath. Eventually he leans back in, brushes their lips together for a fleeting moment, and proceeds to kiss the tears from Athos’ cheeks.

“I love you,” he says quietly, cracking Athos’ heart open in an effort to let more light inside. “Very much.”

Athos smiles through his tears, and looks to the side, encounters Aramis’ wondering gaze.

“Are you alright?” Aramis asks him, and Athos cannot blame him for the tremble in his voice.

“Yes,” he hears himself say, that same tremble travelling through him, propelled forward with each quickened heartbeat, “I’m alright.”

Porthos huffs, audibly fond, and gives Athos a gentle squeeze. “You two, I swear to God.”

He allows Athos to slide off him and turn towards Aramis once more, brushes Athos’ hair to the side to place a kiss on his neck. “Will you now please go to sleep?”

Athos sniffs and pushes back into him, pulls Porthos’ arm around himself like a safety belt. He’s still feeling off-kilter, maybe even more so after that kiss, and he’s not entirely sure that he will be able to sleep, no matter how much Porthos wants him to.

“It … it wasn’t me who made you cry, was it?” Aramis breaks the silence in the room, sounding nervous, and Athos shakes his head, takes a deep breath.

“You were not. I am merely -”

“Tired,” Porthos interrupts him with a growl.

Athos shivers. “Yes, that too.”

And stunned, and happy, and so goddamn afraid that it hurts just to breathe.

Aramis lifts his hand out of the covers, cups Athos’ cheek. “You know you don’t have to … force yourself,” he says, either reading Athos’ mind, or knowing him too bloody well for their combined good. “To - to do anything. With us, I mean.”

Athos smiles at him, puts his right hand to Aramis’ lips, brushes his thumb over them, almost loses himself in the way they feel under his touch.

“I want to kiss you again tomorrow,” he murmurs, and goosebumps travel all the way over his back when Aramis takes a hasty breath of delighted surprise, “if I may.”

“Of course you may,” Aramis replies hoarsely, his lashes fluttering closed. “I just thought -”

“And I thank you for it,” Athos whispers, feeling the tendrils of sleep creeping over him, “but there is really no reason for worry.”

Aramis smiles at him and closes his eyes, and Athos is content. He very nearly succeeded in convincing himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JESUS, this was a difficult one.


	4. Chapter 4

Athos wakes up with his head on Aramis’ chest - with Aramis’ hand in his hair, gently stroking back and forth.

It is a rare occurrence that Aramis wakes up before him or Porthos, so when Athos looks up at Aramis’ face and finds him gazing back at him, it actually makes him flush, ever so slightly. “How late is it?”

“Half past six,” Aramis whispers, brushing his fingertips over Athos’ scalp. “Did you sleep well?”

Athos attempts a nod, and becomes aware of the way Porthos is holding him from behind, a comforting source of heat all along his back. It causes last night’s scenes to return to the forefront of Athos’ mind, and he freezes for a moment, stares at Aramis’ throat in an attempt to hide his tumultuous thoughts.

The memory of Porthos’ mouth against his, Porthos’ _tongue_ against his, and the way it made him feel … Athos had hoped he would’ve arrived at some sort of conclusion come morning.

But his skin still feels too tight for his body, he feels restless and fidgety … and incredibly safe. Aramis’ gentle caresses soothe him as much as they feed into his anxiety, and Porthos’ proximity will never be anything but reassuring in its familiarity.

Still.

“Let me get up, please,” he says softly.

Aramis moves right away.

Athos knew he would, and he moves out from underneath Porthos’ arm, slides out of bed and walks out of the room.

Aramis’ compliance doesn’t precisely hurt him; in a way it’s even refreshing that he never refuses him anything, that he never forces Athos to explain himself - but he would still be happier if Aramis could be a little more secure of his place with him.

That will probably take some time yet, and Athos is prepared to wait for as long as it takes. He supposes that he understands Aramis’ insecurities better than anyone, maybe even Porthos.

The walk to the bathroom is short, and Athos navigates it without conscious thought. He is too distracted by the taste of stale wine on his tongue - by the flashes of need and emotion moving through him when he thinks back to kissing Porthos.

He’s still struggling to process the sheer physicality of it - that what usually flustered him as much as it turned him off was actually pleasurable this time around. For once he didn’t feel detached from his body, like an outsider looking on, without any control over what was happening to him.

He wasn’t disgusted or uncomfortable.

Instead he felt connected to himself as much as he did to Porthos, felt aroused by kissing him like this … but he still doesn’t know if he wants to do it again. If he wants to kiss Aramis like that. If he wants to do more than just kiss them.

He has no idea what to do. A door has opened, just a crack, and now he has to decide if he wants to have a proper look at what’s on the other side, or kick it shut and stay in the room he’s already decorated to his liking.

Because things between them are good the way they are. He’s afraid of upsetting the balance they have achieved with each other almost as much as he’s afraid of hurting Aramis and Porthos by having to tell them that … that it doesn’t work. That he doesn’t enjoy kissing them after all. Not enough.

Athos frowns and brushes his teeth, lost in thought. He has no idea what to do.

He still doesn’t have a clue when the bathroom door opens behind him and Aramis steps into the room.

He smiles at Athos in the mirror and walks up to stand beside him at the second sink, starts to brush his teeth as well. He looks just as beautiful as he always does, in a pair of briefs that Athos would be tempted to call indecent if it wasn’t for the air of vulnerability surrounding him.

His hair is tousled and his cheeks are slightly flushed, and Athos becomes aware of the desire to touch him the same moment Aramis rinses his mouth and turns to face him. “I need to talk to you.” He grimaces. “Pretend I didn’t say that. Those are the worst opening words ever, they should be banned. But I really need to talk to you. Please.”

Athos rinses his own mouth, grabs a towel to wipe his lips, all the while looking at Aramis in the mirror.

“Go ahead,” he says eventually.

Aramis takes a deep breath, and stares down into the sink, holds on to it with both hands, leaning over it. “I thought a lot about what happened yesterday; and I … I need you to know something.”

A moment of silence follows that declaration, a moment that stretches and stretches until Athos lifts his hand to Aramis’ shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Yes?”

Aramis turns his head then, looks up into Athos’ face - even manages a little smile. “I love you,” he whispers, his eyes shining with the suggestion of tears. “Even if you’ll never kiss me the way you did Porthos last night - even if you don’t want me to see you naked, or touch you - if you don’t want to touch me. Because for as long as I can remember, people have looked at me and seen my body, but you and Porthos - you’ve seen _me_.” And here his smile widens, turns warm and honest. “You’ve given me everything I ever needed, and I will do the same for you, always.”

Athos swallows and opens his mouth, while Aramis’ words settle over his frightened heart like a balm.

“You will never hurt me by not wanting to fuck me,” Aramis whispers then, blushing, but holding Athos’ gaze. “I guess that’s what I’m trying to say.”

Silence stretches out between them once more, and Aramis lets go of the sink and straightens, looks a little nervous all of a sudden. “Please say something.”

“It felt good,” Athos blurts promptly, blushing to the roots of his hair - he can tell. “Kissing Porthos, I mean. It felt good, and now I do not know what to do, because it has never felt like this before, and this is all new to me, and I -”

He stops himself, closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath. “Will you kiss me, please?”

“Of course,” Aramis replies immediately, his voice soft, and moves to stand in front of Athos, close enough for Athos to feel his warmth. He gives Athos a moment to prepare himself, and then he leans in, brushes their mouths together.

It’s simple and easy and innocent; it makes Athos feel warm and whole and at home in his own body - it very nearly makes him cry.

He opens his mouth, doesn’t even mean to do it, but it happens anyway; and he licks over Aramis’ lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world, without thinking, without fear; and a pink haze of joy settles over him when Aramis kisses him back.

It’s not the same as kissing Porthos. It’s different. But still good.

Yes. Still good.


	5. Chapter 5

“How was that?” Aramis asks, a minute or two later. “Are you ok?”

He’s a little flushed, and his hair’s a mess, and Athos loves him so much that it hurts a little.

“Yes,” he says, lifting his hand to cup Aramis’ cheek. “I am ok. That was very good.”

He leans in to give Aramis another kiss, eyes and lips closed, and then he steps back, and smiles. “Shall we return to Porthos now?”

Aramis nods and bites his lip in an effort to tone down his own smile, but still he looks radiantly happy - irresistible. It’s not the first time that Athos realizes how very attractive Aramis is, and he does not mean in a physical way. There’s just something about Aramis that makes you want to care for him, that makes you want to touch and hold and pet him, and make sure that he is safe - that he is happy.

It took Aramis about five minutes to instil that desire in him, the very first time they met; and even when Athos refuses to believe in love at first sight, he does believe in soul mates.

Apparently he’s collecting those. He’s got at least one set already.

So Athos takes Aramis’ hand and leads him back to Porthos’ bedroom.

Porthos is awake when they step inside, has burrowed into both blankets and is peeking out at them from underneath a mountain of warmth. “And where have you two been?”

“The bathroom,” Athos informs him smoothly, stepping closer to the bed, still holding on to Aramis’ hand.

“Didn’t know you’re in the habit of goin’ together,” Porthos chuckles, lifting the blankets for them so they can slip underneath.

His skin feels hot to the touch after the comparable cold of the apartment, and Athos has to close his eyes, has to remind himself that he is not in the habit of using Porthos as his own personal heater.

Still he ends up pressing his face to Porthos’ neck, eyes closed, breathing him in.

It will never cease to confound him - how being close to Porthos makes him feel.

Porthos is a physical person, and to Athos, he will always be the centre of gravity of any room he’s in. He is tall and broad and strong, and if he wanted to he could probably break Athos like a twig. The important thing is that he doesn’t want to. What Porthos wants, all he ever wants, is … to be himself. And what Porthos is, underneath all those muscles and the dimples, is calm, and protective, and loving, and warm.

That’s why Athos was always very careful about being close to him. Because it’s so very difficult to let go again once you’ve given in.

He’s still getting used to the fact that he doesn’t have to let go, anymore. That Porthos is _his_ now. Maybe he always has been. It’s difficult to wrap his head around that, too.

Athos sighs and brushes a kiss to Porthos’ throat, not thinking, not worrying, but doing what feels right. As a result Porthos’ arms come up around him and pull him closer, hold him in an embrace that’s as tight as it is comforting.

“You wanna tell me what you did in the bathroom to get all snuggly on me?” Porthos murmurs into his ear, his breath tickling Athos’ skin; and in that moment Athos thinks he might have an idea why Aramis finds it so difficult to stay in control of his urges, no his _reactions_ more often than not.

You might as well expect a hapless little magnet to _ignore_ a fridge.

Athos takes a deep breath and moves his lips a little higher, over Porthos’ jawline, towards his ear. “We kissed,” he whispers, breathless, his voice rough … discomposed.

He never could like that, the idea of losing his composure in front of others, of exposing himself in more than just the physical sense. He still doesn’t know if he likes it, but at least he’s not uncomfortable right now.

The opposite, really.

“You kissed, eh?” Porthos says, and Athos can hear the smile in his voice, the satisfaction in the words, and he gets goosebumps all over his back.

“You like that, do you?” he murmurs, his lips brushing Porthos’ skin; and he feels so fluttery, so helpless and safe and needy - so grateful for Porthos’ warmth.

It anchors him. It always has.

“I sure do, love,” Porthos confirms, and then he turns his head, presses a kiss to Athos’ mouth, soft, undemanding. “‘S far as I’m concerned you can do that as much as you like - don’t have to go to the bathroom for it, either.”

Athos smiles, and pulls back. “I will keep that in mind,” he says, looking into Porthos’ eyes.

Porthos dimples at him.

God, he’s beautiful.

Athos more or less collapses on top of him, feeling weak to his very core. Wanting to kiss people sure is exhausting.

Underneath him, Porthos starts to laugh. “You’re all shook up inside, aren’t you? I can practically hear your thoughts tumblin’ all over each other.”

“I might be reasonably bewildered,” Athos replies, mustering all the dignity he can.

Porthos presses a kiss to his forehead. “You take all the time you need to figure this out, love. Aramis ‘n I’ve got each other to kiss. Don’t you forget that.”

He promptly turns his head to the side to claim a little love and affection from Aramis, who provides it eagerly enough, and sends a shiver of warmth over Athos with the noises he makes.

“There is that,” Athos murmurs, watching them kiss, his heart doing something complicated inside his chest. He has no idea what he’d do without them.

Be lonely, probably.

But they’re with him, so he’s not, not even a little; and imagining life any different really doesn’t get him anywhere.

He sighs. “I’m going to get up and make coffee now.”

His words make them interrupt their kiss, although it wasn’t his intention. They turn towards him, kiss his cheeks, perfectly in synch, make his heart do that complicated thing again.

“You really do not have to -” he starts, and then Porthos’ mouth is on his neck and Aramis’ is on his shoulder, and they are leaving their brands on him, their mouths hot and wet, stretch him out between them and come over him like the tide. It feels like the sea pulling him down by his ankles, making him feel heavy and weightless all at once.

But only for a moment.

They let him up again, a little tumbled and gasping for air, but no worse for the wear.

Porthos looks smug; Aramis looks adorably guilty.

“Was that really necessary?” Athos asks, somewhat indignant.

He feels violated. In a good way. He doesn’t think he likes that. Except he really does.

“Absolutely,” Porthos says, voice firm. “You never had a proper hickey, and it’s high time you did.”

Aramis bites his lip and looks at Athos through his lashes. “I always enjoy getting one,” he says, voice soft, almost dreamy. “It’s like -”

“Like a brand,” Athos drawls, dipping in for a kiss when Aramis looks startled. “I shall make a note of your enjoyment, though.”

Then he gets up.

He leaves Aramis horribly flushed, and Porthos chuckling to himself, and there is no doubt in his mind that they will make good use of his absence - that Aramis will get a few marks of his own ere they join him in the kitchen for breakfast.

Athos certainly doesn’t begrudge them their pleasure, and he must admit, stroking his fingertips over the mark on his shoulder, that it is a rather potent reminder of their relationship.

He still thinks he might prefer something else though.

Maybe jewellery.


End file.
